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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24432046">Only When It Is Dark Enough Can You See The Stars</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoaringMice/pseuds/RoaringMice'>RoaringMice</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Star Trek: Enterprise</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gen, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 08:08:46</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,318</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24432046</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoaringMice/pseuds/RoaringMice</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Malcolm Reed, after his experiences in Section 31 and on Enterprise, is struggling to make a life for himself outside of Starfleet. He finds himself dragged back in when T’Pol shows up at his doorstep, claiming that Trip is alive. Can he find a way to deal with his issues enough to be able to help her? Can he and T’Pol find Trip? Tune in and see…</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Malcolm Reed/Charles "Trip" Tucker III, T'Pol/Charles "Trip" Tucker III</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>148</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Only When It Is Dark Enough Can You See The Stars</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eireann/gifts">Eireann</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Note: Malcolm/Trip (past), Trip/T’Pol</p><p>I’ve been working on this one for a while. For Eireann, who inspired me to try some action scenes with her scenes in Siren Song, which you should definitely check out; and thus allowed me the opportunity to finish this! </p><p> </p><p>“But I know, somehow, that only when it is dark enough can you see the stars.”<br/>― Martin Luther King, Jr.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>He stood over Trip’s body as it laid on the bed in sickbay, seeing, and not seeing, the burns that marred Trip’s features, afraid to touch – that if he touched the man, he himself would break apart. The ship had been boarded, and he hadn’t got there on time. Trip had done – God, it was – They were counting on him to protect them, and he hadn’t got there on time, and Trip had –</em>
</p><p>Malcolm snapped awake. Remembering where he was, he sat back and let the sunlight warm him, warding off both the autumn chill and his dream. He’d had that one before, many times. Ever since Trip had died on Enterprise. In his dreams, Trip’s death was still as fresh, as shocking as if it had happened yesterday.</p><p>Sitting with his arms wrapped around his chest, legs thrust in front of him, he propped the heel of one foot on the toe of the other. His boot was scuffed. In a past life, he might have cared. He was past caring.</p><p>He watched people walk past, a few kids tossing some sort of small knit ball from foot to foot. He could hear the band that had set up across the bricked plaza, playing with more enthusiasm than skill. A skateboarder whipped by, narrowly missing Malcolm’s feet. Malcolm flinched and watched him move off. Bloke looked a bit like Travis. Malcolm sighed, raised his face to the sun, and closed his eyes.</p><p>It had been two years, two months, and seven days since he’d left Enterprise. It wasn’t all that long, but his time in Starfleet seemed a life lived in another time, lived by someone else. Trip, the Captain, Hoshi, Travis, Phlox, T’Pol – he’d neither seen nor spoken to any of them since he’d left the ship, but they lived in his memories, haunted his dreams. They were all off all living their lives, some likely still in Starfleet, others having gone on to other things. And Trip, gone forever, lost to them all. Lost to him.</p><p>The band had stopped. Afternoon was moving into evening, the air growing cool. There were still plenty of people going by, many of whom, best he could tell, were university students. Autumn; the start of a new term. A time of new beginnings, of loss and remembrance, as summer transitioned to winter.</p><p>A breeze stirred the leaves on the bricked pavements, footfalls shuffling, soft sounds. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been sitting there, coffee cup in hand, duffel bag beside him. He tugged his hoodie closer. He’d forgotten where he’d got it, but liked it because was comfortable, and the sleeves were long, so they kept his hands warm in the New England chill. It was a bit ragged, a faded black with some old band’s name and logo emblazoned down the sleeves – Green Day, whoever that was. He rolled the cup between his hands, took a sip.</p><p>A uniformed police officer passed, giving him a pointed look. Malcolm nodded and offered the man a short smile. Likely thought him homeless. All he owned he had with him – what he was wearing, what he had in his bag. It didn’t matter.</p><p>Maybe things would be different here.</p><p>Back in San Francisco, he’d found it difficult. There, odd things – someone’s shout, a scream, fireworks - would trigger memories so vivid he thought he was back in the moment. Doctors called them flashbacks, said with treatment, they might pass. But after two years, two months, and seven days, he was sick of the doctors, of the medications, of them trying to get him to talk about what had happened during his time in the Section, which he could not discuss, and his time on Enterprise, which he didn’t want to discuss. So he’d left San Francisco, left California, and thinking he’d head home to England, had jumped on a transport that had made a stop in Boston. And then, rather than going on, he’d got off. He wasn’t sure why. But he’d got on the first train – the “T”, apparently the first metro built in these United States. And now he found himself here, sitting on a bench in front of a low wall, watching passersby. He was about as far from Starfleet headquarters as he could get and still be in the continental United States, and just about as lost as he’d ever found himself.</p><p>He turned the coffee cup in his hands. He was here; and now he had some decisions to take.</p><p>Standing, he began wandering the neighborhood. He needed – hell, he needed a lot of things. But first he needed to focus on his most immediate needs – a place to stay, for a start. A hotel, or… He stopped in front of a letting agent’s office, called a “realtor” here, and stared at the listings. He was in Boston, or – he peered at the addresses scrolling past him – apparently, he was actually in Cambridge. Far from San Francisco, far from Starfleet. Trying not to think too much about what he was about to do, he entered the office, a bell ringing as he entered. Before he could change his mind, he let a small bedsit sight unseen, “a studio apartment” near the “college”, and in walking distance of a “T station”, as the realtor described it. An old uni, Harvard University. An old uni in an old city - good enough a place as any to figure out what might be next.</p><p>The realtor told him that there were “lots of colleges in town” – college, he knew meant university, and “town”, the realtor explained, meant the city of Boston itself, although she’d seemed to use it to mean Boston and the towns around it. Likely he could get a job teaching something, he thought as he signed away his life – although he knew he wasn’t in shape for that yet. He’d seen several job postings as he’d walked, such as security for local dance clubs, but he knew he couldn’t face the noise and the lights, never mind the crowds in such a place. Instead, his new electronic key in hand, he walked from place to place, tracing the route to his new flat with his feet. Those shops that seemed interesting, he asked after work. But it was when he passed a small bookstore – an actual, physical store that sold books – that he knew he’d found a fit. He pushed open the door, entering an oasis of calm off the business of Harvard Square. It was a small shop, only one employee that he could see, and no customers at all. Quiet. Just what he needed. As he wandered the aisles – all two of them – and then wound his way up a creaking staircase, he passed books and other forms of media, devices, and things to write on and with. Standing at a window, he looked down over the street. There was nothing here to remind him of Enterprise, or Section 31, or anything he’d been through in his recent life.</p><p>He walked back downstairs and spoke to the owner, channeling his best Trip Tucker charm and hoping she couldn’t see through it. He did well enough to get himself hired, starting the next day.</p><p>Day turned into night, and Malcolm found himself walking through the crowds. It was a warm night, and suddenly, Harvard Square felt like the center of the world, everyone seemingly drawn there. Business people, out for a bit of fun after work. People he assumed were Professors, and uni students, although they were not at all like students at Starfleet Academy; these were more like students at U London, where he’d gone before… before Starfleet. Before everything. He noticed some street punks – or those hoping to pass for them – lounging and passing a joint around. He’d half a thought to ask them where they’d bought it. Skateboarders were trying tricks near the T station. There were even a few old blokes like himself, buzzing around on boards. Maybe he should try it. It might serve as a way to burn off anxiety. Likely better for him than the pot, anyway.</p><p>Finally reaching the street where he’d be living, he noticed that someone had placed an old armchair next to their rubbish bins. Obviously up for the taking, so take it he did. He threw his bag over his shoulder and hauled the chair up three flights to the top floor, where he found what was now his door. He triggered the door and revealed the place.</p><p>Small, was his first thought. But bright - there were several large old windows letting in the streetlights through the curtains, so there was that. And it seemed to come with a bit of furniture – a bed, at least, and a chest of drawers. And now his chair. He dumped the chair in front of the windows and plunked himself down on the mattress. He’d need to pick up a few things for the tiny kitchen. And some sheets.</p><p>Lying back, he closed his eyes and let the exhaustion take him. It wasn’t like him, to make all these sudden decisions – to decide to go home, to step off in Boston instead, then to decide to stay in a city in which he’d never been, in which he knew no one. His old self would have been far more careful and considered. But things needed to change; he needed to change, and this was as good a way as any to begin.</p><p>Malcolm woke, drenched in sweat and panting, chasing the edges of a dream. Taking deep breaths, he listened for the sound of traffic moving outside. There were people chatting somewhere nearby – he traced the sounds to the street below his window. A flash of vehicle lights sped through his curtains, across the wall, then gone. The soft glow of some stars a past tenant had pasted onto the ceiling above the bed caught his attention. He anchored himself in these details.</p><p>By now, he should be used to the nightmares, but nothing he did made them any easier to bear. Knowing there was nothing for it – he’d be up for hours, adrenaline coursing through him – he pushed himself up, stumbling into the bathroom, using the streetlights to peer at his face in the mirror. He looked, as Trip might say, like shit. Pale, even for himself. Darkness under his eyes. Hair, longer than it had been when he was on Enterprise, standing in wild spikes. Still wearing the clothing from earlier, now rumpled – he hadn’t even managed to take off his shoes. Just as well, now he was up.</p><p>Shaking, he moved in darkness to the small kitchen area. Squinting against the light as he opened the fridge, he removed two beers from the six the realtor had given him in congratulation, and opening them both, slumped in his new-old armchair and stared out the window. It was too bright, with the street lights, to see the stars, but he could just see the edge of the moon at the top of his window. He placed one beer on the floor beside his chair with a soft click against the wood boards. The other, he kept in his hand. Swirling that beer, he took a fast gulp. He rested the bottle on his leg as a way of calming its jittering. His doctors might say this was “self medicating”, using beer as a crutch, but he often found he cared less about that at night, after a nightmare, than in the day. Better than the drugs they’d had him on, which seemed to do nothing other than make him muddled. This, at least, gave him a feeling of control. He took another large sip, then a third, and soon finished the first bottle and moved on to the second.</p><p>He really might try that pot. Or the skateboarding. Or both.</p><p>One good thing so far about Boston – well, really technically Cambridge – was that none of his neighbors had done as much as opened their doors and said hello. And his only coworker was, as far as he could tell, the owner of the shop, and once she was done training him, he’d likely see her only when they passed in the trade off between shifts. No one he’d spoken to had asked why an Englishman was here in Boston. Other than his boss, no one knew he’d been in Starfleet, and she hadn’t asked why he’d left, only whether or not he could handle operating a till – er, “cash register”, as she’d called it.</p><p>Soon enough, he found he’d established a routine. He worked Thursday to Sunday at the shop, then grabbed something for tea, then home. Lather, rinse, repeat. On his days off – actually, he’d found it was not such a good thing, having days off. He needed to find a routine for those as well, as far too often he was finding himself in a pub somewhere, drinking himself a little too close to oblivion for his own good, memories of Trip and of Enterprise haunting him. Still, he was liking this life, so far. People here left him pretty much alone, for which he was grateful.</p><p>Thus he was alone at work when it happened. He was working on what was normally his day off, to allow his boss time off for “Patriots’ Day”, a local holiday. He wasn’t quite sure what it entailed, other than a Marathon race in nearby Boston, a baseball game there as well, and from what he could tell, many, many drunken students here in Cambridge.</p><p>What he wasn’t expecting was the fireworks.</p><p>Malcolm froze, books falling from his hands.</p><p>
  <em>He stumbled forward, taking cover behind the short wall, hoping it would serve as enough protection. Weapon up and ready, heart pounding, he raised his eyes over the barrier, nearly getting his head shot off for the trouble. He dodged a blast, then returned fire, hearing one of the aliens scream as it was hit. He willed himself to focus, to ignore the shouts as his eyes panned the courtyard, looking for a break in the fire, a way to reach Trip and Archer. Smoke obscured his vision. He wiped a hand harshly across his eyes, as if that might help. They were counting on him to protect them –</em>
</p><p>Malcolm heard a voice – someone talking to him, a woman, her words piercing the buzz of panic and noise.</p><p>“You’re okay.”</p><p>Malcolm blinked. He was squatting behind a bookshelf, books strewn on the floor around him. He wasn’t sure where, or why –</p><p>“What’s your name?”</p><p>There was a woman squatting directly in front of him.</p><p>“Reed,” he said, his voice shaking, breath coming in quick gasps. “Malcolm.”</p><p>“Hi, Malcolm. My name’s Claire. Do you know where you are?”</p><p>Malcolm looked around, and everything snapped into place. He could see the books, the shelves, hear the sound of the traffic as it went by the tiny shop, the soft music playing on the shop’s sound system.</p><p>“I work here.” His throat was dry, and he could feel tension thrumming through his legs, his back.</p><p>“Can you get up?” Claire asked, offering a hand. He stared at it. It took him a minute. Then he grabbed it and got to his feet, jittery with nerves and adrenalin. Luckily, Claire seemed to be the only person in the store.</p><p>Claire placed a gentle hand under his chin and he flinched, stilling himself purposefully as she lifted his head until he met her eyes. She had hazel eyes. Reddish brown hair thrown up into a ponytail. Somewhere in her thirties. Running leggings and a hoodie, music player hooked to an ear, bag in her hand.</p><p>When he didn’t reply, Claire nodded and dropped her hand. “Let’s call your boss and say you’re going home sick, all right?”</p><p>“I’m fine,” Malcolm said, already pulling away. He found himself physically backing away from her, and had to stop himself. He took a shaky breath. “I’ll be all right,” he said, knowing he didn’t sound at all convincing.</p><p>Claire blew right past that one. “Anyone I can call for you, come pick you up?”</p><p>He shook his head. “I haven’t been in the city that long.”</p><p>“Haven’t met any of the neighbors yet, have you?’ Claire kept talking, her voice calm, her eyes frankly evaluating, making sure he was okay. “That’s a thing about Boston – you can live next door to someone for 30 years and never even say hi. But let me tell you, when you need them, they’ll be there for you.”</p><p>“Like you?”</p><p>“Like me,” Claire said with a nod. “You’re going home,” she said firmly.</p><p>Not having the energy to fight her, he called his boss and told her he’d taken ill, then closed up the shop. Walking to the T, Claire asked, “What branch of the service were you in?”</p><p>Malcolm glanced over at her, surprised. “Starfleet.”</p><p>“My brother was a MACO. He was discharged almost five years ago, but he’s still working through the PTSD.”</p><p>That explained why she’d handled all this so well. They walked in silence to the station, and sat beside each other on the train. “Where are you living?” she asked.</p><p>“Ellery Street, near Harvard,” he said. His leg was bouncing, and he put a hand on his knee, stilling it.</p><p>“Nice neighborhood.”</p><p>“I suppose it is.” He hadn’t really thought about that. As the train announced his stop, he stood.</p><p>“Hey, you have something to write on?” Claire asked, looking up at him from where she was sitting.</p><p>Malcolm rummaged around in his bag. Realizing he’d left his padd at the shop, he shook his head. “Not as such.” He looked up. “I have a pen, but that’s about it.” He held it in her direction.</p><p>Claire grabbed his hand and the pen and, on his palm, wrote something. “This is how to reach me.” She curled his fingers closed over the writing, and took that hand in both of hers, squeezing then releasing. “Any time you want to talk – about anything – get in touch.”</p><p>Malcolm uncurled his fingers and stared down at the characters she’d scrawled, bemused. He looked up at her. “Is everyone from Boston this…”</p><p>“Obnoxious?”</p><p>“I was going to say ‘forthright’, but yes.”</p><p>Claire shrugged. “Once you get to know us. Pretty much.”</p><p>The train screeched to a stop, and Malcolm made to step through the open doors.</p><p>Claire grabbed his wrist. “You getting some help?”</p><p>Malcolm nodded, feeling a blush rise at the lie.</p><p>The frank look that Claire gave him showed what she thought of what he’d just said. “Remember what I said. Call me. I mean it.”</p><p>Malcolm nodded again, and as she released him and the train doors slid shut, she waved at him through the window. He raised a hand in response.</p><p>Malcolm entered his flat and shut the door behind him firmly. Back to the door, he dropped his bag to the floor with a thud, then pushed away from the door, crossing the small room and slumping down into his chair. He closed his eyes. He’d figure it all out later. Now, he was exhausted.</p><p>
  <em>He dreamt of Trip. Their first “date”, which was not really a date at all. They were on a mission with Travis. Surprisingly, all had gone well for once, and the end of the day found them relaxing at the local drinking establishment. Travis decided to go to bed, which left Malcolm and Trip standing and drinking, alone in a sea of strangers. When Trip noticed a couch suddenly free, they moved over and sat. They’d become friendly, especially after the incident with Shuttlepod One, but that was it. So they were having  a few drinks? That wasn’t anything unusual. So they were sitting side by side on the small couch, their legs touching slightly? They’d been in closer quarters before. But this time, when Trip laughed at something and nudged Malcolm with a shoulder, Malcolm decided, for once in his life, not to shy away. He settled in, letting himself rest against the man beside him. Trip looked at him with surprise. Malcolm grinned up at him through his lashes. And that’s all it took. The beginning, right there. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>The dream changed, darker now. He stood over Trip’s body as it laid on the bed in sickbay, seeing, and not seeing, the burns that marred Trip’s features, afraid to touch – that if he touched the man, he himself would break apart. The ship had been boarded, and he hadn’t got there on time. Trip had done – God, it was – They were counting on him to protect them –</em>
</p><p>His legs were trembling, and he realized he was standing, back pressed to the corner of a room, arms up to defend himself from… Something. Nothing. Tension hummed through his shoulders, neck, everywhere the sense of alarm. Where in the bloody hell was he? It was dark. He focused on the stupid armchair. Floral print. Something someone’s grandmother might have had. Right, bedsit. Boston. Holding his breath, he exhaled loudly, then slid to the floor and hugged his legs. When would this end? He rested his head on his knees. Dizzy, he waited for his heart to slow, and carefully raised his head. He was in the kitchen. He had no memory of even having moved. This had been a bad day; a very bad day; a bloody horrid day; and he needed it to “Stop,” he heard himself say aloud.  </p><p>Up and stumbling over to his bureau, he hastily pulled on his hoodie, hands shaking. To and through the bathroom, then to the kitchen where he grabbed several beers, shoving them into a backpack, and outside he went in a rush. He started walking, he didn’t care where, drinking as he went, didn’t care if it was or wasn’t legal to drink in public here. Eventually, his pace slowed. It was a warm night, but quite late, hours after the trains had stopped, the bars had closed, so there were few people out. His feet took him onto the grounds of the university, and he sat on the steps of Widener Library. He could smell leaves, although it was still early enough in autumn to be out here in just the hoodie. Leaning back against a wall, legs out in front of him, he finished the last of his beers, feeling himself calm. He noticed a faint pink as the sun began to rise above the horizon. When dawn came, so did the early runners, and he used that as his signal to leave.</p><p>He walked. Moving helped. Once things started to open, he found a shop and bought some pot – a lot of it – and at another shop, a skateboard, and up the stairs and home, put them both in the kitchen – the pot in a drawer, the skateboard in the corner where he’d woke last night. Then the rest was done on autopilot: cleaning himself up, dressing, work, home, eat, knowing that moving so automatically through his day wasn’t a positive signal. Nor was his behavior from the night before. Nor were the nightmares, or the flashback, or… Perhaps going off his meds hadn’t been such a good idea. Maybe taking off and moving cross country hadn’t been such a good idea, either. Maybe he should go home. But where was home? Enterprise? San Francisco? England? He didn’t know what was going on with him, but knew he didn’t want to go there. But something was wrong, and it appeared to be getting worse. His mind was racing, as it had done last night; he felt jittery. Maybe he should find a local doctor. He remembered Claire – he’d transferred her contact information into his book. Maybe he should call her. He sat in his chair, staring at the skateboard, his foot beating a steady rhythm against the floor. He should call her. He needed to get out of here. He was up and moving before he could think too much about it, grabbing the board. He headed for the Plaza, near the Science Centre, where he’d seen people skating.</p><p>Thankfully, it was late enough that no one around to see him make an arse of himself. He might very well, as the locals would say, “wicked suck at this”, but he needed to do something new, something physical and all consuming, to help get his mind off this – off everything. He put the board down, and spent the next fifteen minutes falling off the thing before he starting spending more time on it than off. By the end of the hour, he was doing a pretty good job of going forward in a straight line, and had some idea of how to turn. By the end of the evening, he was doing simple tricks – probably more than he should be doing knowing nothing about technique, but he swore he’d look up some how-tos when he got back to his flat. For now, he just enjoyed the sense of speed, wind in his hair and pulling against his hoodie, the focus on trying to control the board beneath his feet, all while keeping an ear out for campus security, because he knew from past observation that skateboarding was not allowed on this plaza. He pushed with his right foot, building up speed. He flew off the edge of the plaza, letting out a loud whoop, landing with a crash and rolling to standing, his training having taken over where his skating skills had abandoned him. “Ouch”, he said aloud, rubbing at his elbow, his hand coming away bloody. He’d torn a hole in his hoodie. He stepped on the board and made it pop up into his hands, deciding that was probably the end of his night. He needed sleep before work, anyway, and he just had time to get home and catch a few hours. And he had that marijuana at home. He hadn’t smoked in… likely in decades; not since university, and even then rarely, but he hoped that the combination of the exercise and the marijuana might help him sleep without dreams, and at this point, he was willing to try just about anything. He grabbed his bag and headed home.</p><p>Malcolm sat on the floor of his flat, his back against the armchair, the joint he’d just rolled in hand. He wasn’t normally the type of person who – oh, bloody hell, he thought. He felt the burn of the stuff as he inhaled. It went to his head almost immediately. It was really quite seriously strong. Throat uncomfortable, he pushed himself up and got a beer, using its cool to wet his throat. Sitting back down, he stared out at the sky, orange with the lights of the city. He thought he could kind of see one star. If he squinted.</p><p>The skateboarding from earlier had been brilliant. Probably the best thing he’d done since moving to the city. That, and meeting Claire. He took another drag. Maybe he should call her. He hadn’t spoken to her since “the incident” where he’d met her, a couple of weeks back. He decided fuck it, he’d call her.</p><p>The signal buzzed twice, then picked up. Then came a distinctive voice, with that Boston accent. “Yup?”</p><p>“Claire?”</p><p>“Malcolm? You okay?”</p><p>“How did you know who it was?”</p><p>He could almost hear her expression. “I don’t get a lot of calls from British men at…” there was a pause. “… three in the morning.”</p><p>“Ah, Jesus, I’m sorry.”</p><p>“No worries. Are you all right?”</p><p>“I’m good. Just thought I’d…” He leaned back in the chair, propping his feet on the windowsill. “Actually, I have no idea what I’m doing.” He laughed. “I suppose I’m calling to say thank you, for helping me.”</p><p>“You’re welcome. What you doing tonight?”</p><p>“Went skateboarding earlier, or last night; first time. Didn’t completely suck.” He laughed again, feeling oddly free. “And now I’m smoking pot for the first time in, perhaps, 100 years.”</p><p>“And how’s that goin’ for ya?”</p><p>He chuckled. “Ask me again tomorrow when I realize I’m too old for this.”</p><p>“So why you doing it?”</p><p>He paused, then decided to answer. “Remember when you asked if I was in treatment? I wasn’t entirely truthful. I had been. For years, I had been. But I – I don’t know. But right now, I’m not, and things have been getting worse, and I thought… I don’t know what I thought, but I thought I’d try this.” He made himself stop. “And wow, does this stuff make me chatty. I’m sorry about that. I barely know you.”</p><p>He heard Claire exhale. “Listen. I know a really good doctor. Works with my brother. I could give you his contact information.”</p><p>Malcolm realized that was, in large part, why he’d called. “Yes, all right.” He wrote it down on a napkin, and put it next to his bed. Then he thanked her and signed off. He was not sure if he’d actually call that number, but he was careful to remember where he’d put it. He stubbed the joint out carefully, laying it on his windowsill, and sank back onto his mattress.</p><p>Malcolm woke with a start. He’d thought he’d heard something, but peering through weary eyes, he could see everything in the flat; and all seemed fine. He slumped back down on his mattress, letting his eyes close again. He could feel the remnants of the high from the night before. He’d smoked about a half a joint before he’d made that call to Claire, unsure of how potent the stuff would be, how it would affect him. And woah, had it affected him. That call had been completely unlike him. It seemed like everything he’d been doing lately was completely unlike him. He was a Starfleet officer. He should be –</p><p>But no; he was no longer that. So much had changed. So why not move to Boston, and smoke some pot, and just – God, how long had he been sleeping? He looked with bleary eyes at the chronometer – Jesus, a good six hours. He needed to get up, he had work in less than an hour. But God, he was tired.</p><p>Before Malcolm could force himself out of bed, his door chime went. He froze. He knew nearly no one here, purposefully having avoided doing more than nodding at his neighbors or the folks at the local pub. Maybe if he stayed still, they’d go.</p><p>There was a gentle rapping at the door, insistent.</p><p>Malcolm rolled his eyes.</p><p>The rapping got louder.</p><p>He pushed himself up, realizing quickly that he truly was still a bit high from the night before as the room swam around him.</p><p>The rapping came again, and he groaned.</p><p>Slowly, he shifted his legs over the side of the bed, head down. Grateful he was still wearing the hoodie and jeans from yesterday, as getting dressed was beyond him at the moment, he chuckled, low. That he kept waking up in his clothing said something about his current lifestyle. He slid his feet into the shoes at the side of his bed, and stumbled to the door. Without bothering to check who was there, he pulled the door open. Which is why he received such a shock when he saw who was standing there.</p><p>T’Pol. Who took one look at his obvious state of… whatever, that she raised one brow nearly to her hairline. “Lieutenant,” she said, her voice – if you knew what to listen for – clearly showing her surprise. </p><p>Malcolm tried to pull himself to attention from where he was leaning on the doorframe, but gave it up as a lost cause. “Commander,” he replied.</p><p>T’Pol inhaled, and her brow rose even higher. Malcolm knew she was likely smelling the marijuana, as well as his body odor from his exertions with the skateboard, and he couldn’t stop himself – he burst out laughing.</p><p>“Are you all right?” T’Pol said.</p><p>Eyes closing, he shook his head. Of all the times, of all the people, why T’Pol, and why now, after he’d – oh, fuck it all from a height.</p><p>Malcolm restrained his laughter with some effort as he waved her in. He watched as T’Pol entered, noticing she wasn’t wearing a uniform, and that her hair had grown longer. Then, seeing his flat as he imagined she was seeing it, he nearly started laughing again. The entirety of the bedsit’s contents was fully on display, made up of a baggie of pot on the kitchen counter, beside a lighter; the half smoked joint on the windowsill; the flowered upholstered armchair that he’d scrounged from the street on bin night, empty beer bottles scattered beside it; the mattress, bedframe and small, purple chest of drawers that had come with the place, the mattress still without bedcoverings; and his skateboard in the corner. Most of his clothing was strewn on the floor near the bed, as he hadn’t done laundry in a bit, and the remains of last evening’s take away was sitting beside the marijuana. Never mind how he himself looked – no doubt his eyes were red, his hair on end, his clothing mussed. Fabulous impression.</p><p>T’Pol took a measured look at the place, and at him. With her usual calm demeanor, she asked, “Are you well?”</p><p>Good question, thought Malcolm. He wasn’t well; not as such. He was using drink and pot to self-medicate, he’d left San Francisco without so much as a by-your-leave, he wasn’t in treatment for his PTSD, he’d cut himself off from everyone he knew, his family had thought he was going back to England and instead, he’d disappeared when the transport had reached Boston – God, they’d likely reported him missing. So he said the one thing he could. “I’m fine.” And then he snickered, as that was clearly preposterous. “Would you like, erm…” he looked around the flat. The only things he had to offer were a seat on the chair (which was perhaps a bit fragrant to Vulcan noses, having come from the trash), and some pot. He couldn’t imagine T’Pol wanting either.</p><p>T’Pol shook her head. “I’m here with news,” she said, standing in the middle of his room.</p><p>Malcolm stiffened, suddenly wary.</p><p>“Perhaps we should sit,” T’Pol said.</p><p>Oh, God, Malcolm thought, wondering what could have happened. When last he’d heard, T’Pol had left Starfleet and returned to Vulcan, working with their science directorate. He knew that Trip’s death had affected her badly, and she’d left at some point after he himself had left Enterprise. But knowing her, she still had her ears, as it were, open, and knew what was going on with the people they’d known on Enterprise. If she’d gone through the trouble of finding him, then coming to see him in person, something significant must have happened.</p><p>Malcolm sat on his mattress, crossing his legs under him. T’Pol perched, back straight, on the edge of his chair.</p><p>With the directness common to her approach, T’Pol said, “We have discovered that Trip may be alive.”</p><p>“What?” Malcolm shot out, suddenly and completely sober.</p><p>T’Pol began to explain. Malcolm tried to focus on what she was saying, but he found himself lost. He remembered, in a flash, what he’d seen from the recordings of when Trip had died. Sacrificing himself for nothing. “I’m sorry, can you repeat all that? I’m…” He unfolded his legs, stood, and strode to the window, looking out but not seeing. “I’m not sure I’m…” He was shaking. His hands clenched in fists, breath rapid.</p><p>He heard T’Pol approach. Standing at his side, she joined him in looking out the window. She said nothing, just stood there, her breathing even and measured. With time, he found the cadence of his own breath matching hers, her presence calming him. That was quite different from how he’d felt about her, when serving with her. He’d always found her a bit offputting, a feeling made worse after she and Trip had – He exhaled.</p><p>T’Pol spoke softly beside him, eyes still to the window. “We recently discovered that Trip’s death may have been falsified.”</p><p>Malcolm had a million questions. By whom? And why? Never mind an obvious query: how? But the ones he voiced were, “Why not go to Starfleet? Why come to me?” He hesitated, wrapping his arms around himself. In a quiet voice, he said, “I’m in no shape.”</p><p>T’Pol nodded, acknowledging the truth of that. “And yet you are the only one I can come to for this.” There was a pause. “He appears to have been taken by Section 31.”</p><p>Suddenly, it was quite clear why she couldn’t go to Starfleet, why she’d come to him.</p><p>“Where is he?” Malcolm asked, voice flat. He turned to face her fully.</p><p>“Zemiya,” T’Pol replied, matching his tone. Malcolm did some rough calculations. If they had Warp 4, they could be there in two days.</p><p>“You’re sure he’s not there voluntarily?” he replied, remembering how the Section had hooked him in. How hard it had been to get out after.</p><p>“I admit I am… not sure,” she said, sounding uncomfortable at the admission. “The information I have indicates they’d taken him, falsified his death, and then kept him on Zemiya against his will.”</p><p>Malcolm felt a chill come over him. “Why?”</p><p>“They’ve had him work on weapons systems.” T’Pol turned to face Malcom. “My source says that Section 31 had approached him about designing specific weapons for them, but he’d declined.”</p><p>“I’m sure he did,” Malcolm added. That was very much like the man. And if the Section was working on weapons systems, those were nasty weapons, indeed.</p><p>T’Pol nodded. “They didn’t accept that refusal.”</p><p>Malcolm stepped away from T’Pol, pacing the small space. Trip hadn’t told him anything about being approached by the Section. Why not? Was it because Trip knew he’d been in the Section himself, and how much difficulty he’d had during and afterwards? How the Section had dragged him in again, once he’d thought himself free? Or –</p><p>“Had he mentioned anything about that to you?” Malcolm asked. Even after Trip and T’Pol’s relationship had dissolved, after the baby Elizabeth, he knew they’d still remained close.</p><p>T’Pol shook her head, a mannerism she’d picked up while on Enterprise. “I’ve been in touch with Admiral Archer. He can help us get a ship, although obviously, he can’t be seen to be helping us.”</p><p>“Plausible deniability,” Malcolm murmured.</p><p>“Rogues,” T’Pol added. “Working on our own. It will be made to appear that we have stolen transport.”</p><p>“I suppose that it helps that I’m…” he let that last trail away with the wave of a hand.  </p><p>“…not seen to be entirely well,” T’Pol added. “And that I’m considered somewhat of an iconoclast on my own planet.” Malcolm caught a hint of humour in her eye – he could see why she didn’t quite fit in on Vulcan. “If we are caught,” she added.</p><p>Malcolm nodded. He knew he had no choice but to go. After a quick message to his boss, with apologies about a family emergency and that he’d contact her when he returned, he cleaned up the debris from his dinner, and packed, such as it was, some clothing. He tapped the top edge of his skateboard, promising to return. Then he made sure the napkin with the doctor’s phone number was still beside his bed. And knowing he didn’t have any meds, he grabbed the pot at the last second, stuffing it in his bag. Just in case.</p><p>It wasn’t far to the local spaceport, and to the ship. The ship herself was a decent thing, if small. Sitting at the console, he saw that she could make warp three, so to get to Trip, three or four days. She wasn’t the newest or the most elegant model in the port. In fact, she somewhat reminded him of his own current state – a bit the worse for wear. But she’d been well maintained, mechanically. Well stocked with food and supplies. Lots of interesting gadgets and weapons to play with, none looking like they were from Starfleet. Plausible deniability. And she held enough space for two, so long as one wasn’t seeking privacy.</p><p>As he powered up the ship, he could hear the tower trying to get his attention via comm. He ignored it.</p><p>T’Pol slid into the copilot’s chair beside his. “We may encounter some resistance,” she said with a nod out their viewscreen.</p><p>With a sharply returned nod, Malcolm steered the ship up and out, deftly avoiding weapons fire just as they exited. That fire seemed real, and no doubt it was – from this point forward, they were very likely on their own.</p><p>It had been a long while since he’d piloted a ship; last time was when he was still with Enterprise. He sent her for a spin as he shot up and out of the atmosphere, smothering a smile, and then a yawn. The thing was nimble, he’d give her that. They were through the Earth’s defences in no time at all, and he felt himself relax; it was unlikely anyone would bother coming after one small, old ship. Unable to stop himself, he yawned again. It seemed his body felt he’d had quite enough.</p><p>“I’ll take the first shift,” T’Pol said, giving him a pointed look. “Please get some sleep.” She reached to a control and lowered the lights, and he nodded at her gratefully, trying desperately to hide another yawn.</p><p>He slid out of the chair and moved to the back. He sifted through the items he in the storage spaces until he found some bedding, which he shook out and placed on the floor behind their chairs – the only space large enough for him to lie down somewhat comfortably. Laying on top of most of the bedding, he pulled one blanket up and over him, using it to block out the remaining light. He was out before he’d even thought to sleep.</p><p>
  <em>The ship had been boarded, and he hadn’t got there on time. Trip had done – God, it was – </em>
</p><p>“Lieutenant.”</p><p>
  <em>They were counting on him to protect them, and now Trip was dead, and –</em>
</p><p> “Malcolm.”</p><p>
  <em>He struggled, trying to get away. He had to protect them, they were counting on –</em>
</p><p>Malcolm shot awake, realizing as he did that the fingers of one hand were wrapped around T’Pol’s wrist, his other hand pushing against her chest. He gasped, eyes frantically roving, trying to figure out what was going on.</p><p>“You were shouting,” came T’Pol’s calm voice. “You had a nightmare.”</p><p>Malcolm, with conscious effort, unfurled his fingers and let T’Pol go. He shifted away from her, wanting nothing more than to be up, to get away, to –</p><p>“Do you have medications?” T’Pol asked. He could detect no judgement in her tone; just the frank question.  </p><p>He couldn’t meet her eye. Instead, staring at the viewscreen, he shook his head and tried to control his breathing. His heart was beating like mad. God, she wanted him to help rescue Trip, and he couldn’t even get through the night. How was he supposed to help her, help Trip, when he couldn’t even help himself?</p><p>He felt T’Pol settle to a seat on the floor beside him, careful not to touch him despite the close quarters. “I couldn’t stay with Starfleet once Trip died – after I’d thought he’d died,” she said, her voice low. “They promoted me to Captain, and I’d intended to stay…” her voice drifted off.</p><p>“But you couldn’t,” he finished for her.</p><p>“I could not,” she agreed. “I returned to Vulcan, and focused on my work there. But even that was not enough. I was having dreams,” and at this, she glanced at him, “They were disruptive. It was not until I reworked my meditation practices, and began further study of the teachings of Surak, that I was finally able to find peace.”</p><p>Malcolm nodded, not sure where she was going with this.</p><p>“I may be able to help you,” T’Pol said.</p><p>Malcolm frowned, and turned to face her. “Do you seriously believe that meditation might help with –?“ he cut himself off, hands flying up.   </p><p>“I do not know that it will,” she said. She turned to fully face him, her legs crossed in front of her, her knees brushing his own. “I know that it helped Trip, after the Xindi attack.” She gave him a look that, if he hadn’t known better, was her version of a wry smile. “And as Trip might say, ‘It can’t hurt’.” </p><p>It couldn’t hurt, he thought. Trip was likely right. And it certainly was better than being drugged. And if it helped, even a bit… He sighed, meeting her eye. “It’s more than nightmares,” he admitted. If she was to try this, she needed to know what she was up against.</p><p>“I know,” T’Pol replied.</p><p>“The Xindi,” Malcolm said. “Then Trip and…” he stumbled over the words, “…and you,” he breathed out. “After everything that he and I had been through.” He looked up to the ceiling, as if clarity might be found there.</p><p>“Please understand,” T’Pol said, “I did not know that you and he had been in a relationship before he and I –“</p><p>He cut across her. “I know.” It came out sharper than he’d intended.</p><p>“I am sorry,” T’Pol added.</p><p>Malcolm nodded, staring down at his hands. He worried the seam of his sleeve. He believed her; he had no reason not to. And perhaps she could help. Slowly, hesitantly, he started talking, telling her how things had gone for him – Section 31, the Xindi, Hayes’ death, then Trip’s death; but not just those things; it was everything, all building up. His fingers tore at the threads as he spoke.</p><p>He felt T’Pol’s hand touch his knee, and he froze.</p><p>“Let me help you.”</p><p>“How?” Malcolm asked, sounding quite lost.</p><p>“Begin by closing your eyes,” she said. “Focus on your breathing…”</p><p>So he did; and he did.</p><p>It was a few days later that they reached the planet where Trip was reportedly being held. From the discussions he and T’Pol had on the journey there, he knew that Trip was, when last known, on a base in a remote area of one continent. She had an idea of where, in the facility, the weapons lab was located – useful information if it was accurate - but she didn’t know much beyond that. He’d spent much of his time planning for all possibilities, trying his best to sleep, and focusing on the meditation techniques that T’Pol was teaching him. He wasn’t sure if they were working, but he was finding sleep a bit more restful; so perhaps there was something to what he was learning. It really didn’t matter – he just needed it to work well enough for now. He needed to keep focus long enough to get to the planet, find Trip, and get out of there. The rest, he could deal with later.</p><p>They managed to land the ship without attracting the attention of the locals. Packing what equipment they could carry, they hiked just over an hour to the place where Trip was reportedly being held.</p><p>It was a low building, well hidden by the forest around it. Malcolm crouched behind a tree, T’Pol somewhere off on his six. The base was well secured. He could see sensors, cameras, and several guards beyond the electrical barrier surrounding the building. At least the weather was blessedly cool. Last thing he needed was fingers slick from sweat, he thought as he removed a jamming device from his kit, triggered it, and tossed it toward the barrier. He heard a click and a whir, and watched as the cameras all slowly slid down to face the ground, heads sleepy. Then the electric fence went down with a soft whoosh. He waved T’Pol forward, and they moved through the shelter of the trees, to the point where the guards would no doubt be able to see them. Weapons up, he started firing as he walked, T’Pol providing backup fire. He took down one guard, then the other before either could signal. He was to the door in a rush. He crouched beside it. T’Pol handed him a device from her pack. He pushed it against the door’s surface and listened carefully. After a moment, he had enough information to trigger the door’s lock, and they were in.</p><p>They moved swiftly, not speaking, communicating in hand signals. It appeared to be a decent sized complex, but no matter; T’Pol’s source had given them information on where they thought the weapons labs were, so they headed there directly, hoping against hope that the information was accurate.</p><p>Down the bright corridor, left and then right; they were nearly there when a shot buzzed past his shoulder. He felt the heat sear his skin and he flinched, but would not, could not break focus. Seeing the man who’d shot, he fired and the man was down. His hands were shaking, but he ignored them. No time. They needed to move quickly.</p><p>It took everything in him to remain on point. He could feel his nerves thrum. Trip’s life depended on his ability to keep his shit together. T’Pol’s as well. Just a bit longer, he needed to keep himself together just a bit longer; he could break later. He and T’Pol flanked the door, opened it, then in. He saw a guard at the side of the door, and shot him before the man could even react.</p><p>And there was Trip. Parts and blueprints strewn on surface before him, he stood up from his stool so fast it spun away behind him. Trip blinked in surprise, his hands coming up. “Malcolm?” he asked, his eyes showing his shock. Then something more, and a tremble in his voice. “T’Pol?”</p><p>T’Pol was quickly at his side. “Trip,” she said, her voice low. She raised a hand, two fingers meeting Trip’s answering gesture. Then Trip’s eyes moved to Malcolm.</p><p>Malcolm couldn’t move. He felt cold, right across his back, his breath tight in his chest. He could not – he refused to react. There would be time to figure things out later. They needed to get out now. He waved them forward. “We need to go.”</p><p>Trip nodded sharply. Grabbing T’Pol’s hand, he pulled her with him and followed Malcolm through the door.</p><p>The firefight on the way out left no time for questions. Malcolm’s world burst into motion, a blast flashing past as he ducked behind the nearest wall. He grabbed a smoke grenade from his pack and threw. It hit the far end of the corridor and exploded in a fog. He ran across the hall, taking advantage of the smoke, weapon up and ready. He trusted that T’Pol and Trip would follow while the vision of their opponents was obscured.</p><p>Something hit him, hard, on the side of his face, rocking his head back. He staggered. It was followed by another blow. He hit the wall, then the floor. Scrambling for his weapon, dazed, he saw T’Pol raise her own and fire, taking down the man who’d hit him. She reached for the weapon the man had been holding – a large, black cudgel – and held it out for Trip to take.</p><p>Malcolm forced himself to his feet, shrugging off Trip’s hand at his elbow. His vision tunneled. His head, God, it was murder; he struggled not to be sick. He placed a hand against the wall to steady himself. There wasn’t time.</p><p>That’s when the far end of the corridor flared red, then orange with fire. Malcolm could feel the heat. He saw Trip standing, a device in hand, face toward the flames. He heard shouting and movement. The flames were in front of the guards, preventing them from reaching his team. For now.</p><p>T’Pol was at his side. “We must leave.” She stared into his eyes, then nodded to Trip. “Help him; I’ll cover.”</p><p>Out the door. He stared up at an azure sky. He felt himself pulled along.</p><p>A flash, and there were guards, and he twisted, fell as a shot screamed between him and Trip. Steadying his weapon with both hands, he fired. One down. Then again, he shot through the trees, and another guard was down.</p><p>T’Pol at was at his side, pulling him up, and they were running.</p><p>There were woods. He had no idea how long they ran. He stumbled, T’Pol half-carrying him. They reached their ship. He fell through the doorway, feeling like he was going to be sick.</p><p>There was movement all around him as the door shut. He lay on his back on the deck, eyes closed, world spinning around him. He could hear Trip and T’Pol’s voices. The tug of acceleration as the ship moved up and away. Thank fuck.</p><p>At some point, he felt someone fussing over him, a blanket pulled across him. Later, he wasn’t sure how long, he heard Trip offer to pilot for a bit. T’Pol asked him if he remembered how. Trip laughed and replied, “It’s been a while.”</p><p>Sometime later, he felt a hand on his forehead. He opened his yes. Trip.</p><p>“Careful - I think you have a concussion.”</p><p>Pushing away the blanket, Malcolm tried to get himself seated on the deck. Trip helped with an arm to his back. They settled, facing each other across the small space. He was knackered and felt like he could sleep for a fortnight; but he was upright, at least for the moment. “I’m all right,” he replied, his voice coming out rough.</p><p>Trip didn’t look convinced. He handed over a bottle of water, then leaned back against the bulkhead. “So, how you been these past, oh, three years?”</p><p>“Fine.” Eyes on the man, Malcolm took a drink to cover the fact that he was evaluating what he saw. Trip looked good, surprisingly. A bit thinner, a few more lines about the eyes, but otherwise, the same Trip Tucker, right down to the smile.</p><p>Malcolm asked, “Are you all right?”</p><p>“All things considered,” Trip said with a shrug. “Not so bad. They treated me well,” he said, his eyes growing dark. “I’d resisted for a while, and that wasn’t the most pleasant time. But once they thought I had given in and was working on their systems – which I was not – well, they treated me okay.” He winced. “That said, they didn’t let me leave, I couldn’t contact my family – God, my mom!” he said, alarmed, making to stand. “Malcolm –“</p><p>T’Pol’s voice came from the nearby pilot’s seat. “Once we get back to Earth. Until then, it’s best if we keep silent.”</p><p>Trip sank back down. After a moment, probably to take his own mind off of the fact that his family had no idea he was even alive, Trip said, “So, what have you been doing? Gotten any promotions? Dating any hot new alien women?”</p><p>Malcolm broke eye contact. “I left Starfleet.”</p><p>“What? Why?” Trip said, loud in his surprise. Then, quieter, he added, “That place was your life.”</p><p>“It was,” Malcolm said, still not looking at him. “But after the Xindi, your death –“ Now he looked over at Trip, meeting his eye briefly. “I thought you were dead. I saw your body.” He hesitated, then went on, words now coming out in a torrent. “There was so much death. I just, I couldn’t. I mean, I –“</p><p>“It’s all right.” Trip reached a hand toward Malcolm, as if he wanted to touch him, then away.</p><p>“I started having issues,” Malcolm went on. “Dreams. Flashbacks; and then, I mean, I tried medications, but that didn’t seem to work. I was – “ He closed his eyes, trying to block it all out. “I was lost.”</p><p>After a moment, Trip asked, “You seeing someone, getting help?”</p><p>“Why does everyone ask that?” Malcolm spat out harshly.</p><p>Trip looked shocked.</p><p>Malcolm waved a hand frantically, as if he could erase what he’d just said. “Sorry. Sorry. I know. I should be. I was,” he tried to explain, looking to Trip. He lowered his voice. “But you know, they don’t let you stay in the service when you’ve been diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress. They discharged me. And yes, I was seeing someone, but it wasn’t helping,” he said, his voice rising, bitterness showing in his tone. He exhaled loudly, trying to bring it down a notch. “After a while, it all became too much. I took off. I left. Ended up in Boston. That’s where T’Pol found me.” He sighed, then gave a cautious smile. “I do have a joint in my bag, for emergencies.”</p><p>Trip blinked once, twice. Then he said, “You. Have pot. In your bag.” He cocked his head to the side. “That’s not very like you.”</p><p>Malcolm waved that away, trying to play at nonchalance. “Regardless, you’re the one who was just held in captivity for three years. Perhaps this conversation should be about you.”</p><p>Trip raised a brow, but let Malcolm off the hook. Instead, Trip started talking about how he’d string the Section folks along, keeping them going, as the “…reason why they wanted me was that I’m good at this shit. So good,” he gave a tight smile, “…no one in their organization could keep up with me. Made it easier to make them think I was doing one thing, when I was really doing another.”</p><p>Malcolm let the rest of Trip’s words run over, around and past him, glad to hear Trip’s voice again, trying, and failing, not to think about the years lost.</p><p>Trip must have seen something on his face, because Trip grabbed his hand and asked, “How are you doing with all this?” waving a hand at himself.</p><p>“I’m not sure,” Malcolm said. He needed time to think. He cast a pointed look toward T’Pol. ”Anyway…” he said. He nodded in her direction.</p><p>Trip gave him a soft, sad smile. Then he leaned in, closing the distance between them. Malcolm felt Trip’s soft breath along his cheek, then a feather light kiss there. Trip said, his voice low, “I’m so sorry.”</p><p>Malcolm closed his eyes and pulled away. It wasn’t his fault. He knew that. Nor was it the fault of either of them. That didn’t mean it felt any better.</p><p>Malcolm spent the rest of the trip trying to keep to himself; trying to rest, although the close quarters provided by the small ship didn’t do much to give him peace. Trip and T’Pol seemed always to be either working or chatting nearby. Trip wanted to know what had happened while he was gone; T’Pol wanted to make sure that Trip was all right. The back and forth was more than he could handle. As for resting? He pressed his back to the bulkhead, pulling his knees up to his chin. He was afraid to sleep, lest he’d dream; and those times he’d tried to sleep, he’d had trouble. Maybe that last was the concussion. He actually found himself wishing that Phlox was there to treat him for the bloody thing, even if that meant one of the doctor’s odd remedies. Without such a treatment to shortcut his recovery, he knew his only option was to give his body time. “How much longer?” he murmured, eyes closed against the ship’s lights.</p><p>“Less than a day,” came the soft reply.</p><p>He would need to be at the helm once they began their approach to Earth. He was still able to get information via methods he’d developed in Section 31, and he’d tapped those sources again before they’d left, which meant he was the one with the best knowledge of current Earth security systems. He would need to be the one to pilot them through to Earth, to get them around the defences there, get the ship to the place they’d planned to land. And he’d need to be able to focus even once they breached the atmosphere, because if all went to plan, they’d be doing it at night to help provide a bit of cover from prying eyes, and landing in an old, abandoned private airport in the middle of the state, again to help hide their return. If he was lucky, it might also rain. He snickered.</p><p>“Everything okay back there?” Trip said from the controls.</p><p>“Good, good, no worries,” Malcolm replied. No worries. He wasn’t sure of that. Seemed he had quite a lot of worries. Being here with Trip was – well, he was glad that Trip was alive, but hearing Trip’s gentle banter with T’Pol was only serving to remind him of the fact that his relationship with Trip was long in the past. Dead and buried. He rested his head on his arms.</p><p>He woke to an arm on his shoulder. “Your turn.” That was Trip. Yawning, Malcolm stood and stretched gently. He still had the headache, but he was upright; half the battle done, there.</p><p>He slid into the pilot’s chair, T’Pol beside him in the other seat.</p><p>As Trip slid aside, he asked, “You good for this?”</p><p>Malcolm nodded. “Good enough.” He’d have to be. From here on is where things would get tricky.</p><p>Trip stood behind them as Malcolm moved his eyes to the controls. He hummed a tune as his eyes traced the readouts. A line appeared in the upper right quadrant of one screen, a light nearby flashed red, and he reacted, moving the ship in and through Earth’s outer defence systems.</p><p>“Hey, watch –“</p><p>Malcolm waved an inpatient hand, and Trip shut up. Closer in now, Malcolm kept his eyes peeled, hands hovering over the controls, moving each one gently, a bit here, a hair there.</p><p>There was a beeping; a warning. It became a loud alarm.</p><p>“Bloody fucking all that is –“</p><p>He jerked the control to the left, then evened them out. “Incoming,” he said quietly to T’Pol.</p><p>“They seen us?” Trip asked from behind them.</p><p>“Not yet,” Malcolm whispered. “Come on, come on,” he said softly, trying to gain a bit more speed out of already overtaxed engines. They were nearly there, if he could just get them THERE he could hide them in the air, the other ship would speed right past them. Ship moving fast, Malcolm moving faster, mind buzzing, hands flying. And there, they finally reached the place. “This should work,” he murmured, more to himself than to anyone else, as he edged the ship into position.</p><p>“Shutting down,” he said, adjusting controls with sharp movements. “Nothing but life support,” he whispered. Gliding through the atmo, flying low. Not so low as to attract notice by those on the ground, but low enough to hit that sweet spot he’d found in his research, between Earth’s externally focused sensors and internal, and if he went just so, he could thread them through the gap. “Shh…” he said, voice soft. He swore he could hear the wind in their sails – not that they actually had sails.</p><p>“They’re gone,” Trip said, eyes on the readouts.</p><p>Malcolm waited. He waited longer. He waited still longer, to be sure. Then slowly, slowly he turned the ship, heading toward their landing site. Slowly, he set her down. As they landed, he exhaled.</p><p>He felt Trip’s firm hand on his back. “That was fucking awesome, man.”</p><p>“Indeed,” T’Pol added.</p><p>Malcolm was up in a flash, slapping a hand to the door controls, out, bending and vomiting in the grass beside the ship.</p><p>There was a hand on his back, rubbing. Trip. “You okay?”</p><p>Malcolm fell to a seat on the grass. He shook his head, no. He lay down on his side and let the world spin around him.</p><p>“Okay,” Trip said, keeping his voice low. “You stay; I’ll pack.”</p><p>Malcolm didn’t bother arguing. There was a blanket over him; people moving past, Trip and T’Pol’s soft voices. Someone helped him to stand. “The ship,” he said.</p><p>“We took what’s ours,” Trip said. “Archer’s folks’ll arrange for someone to find it in a week or so.”</p><p>“We have a vehicle,” T’Pol added.</p><p>“I’ll drive, just need a minute.” Trip grabbed a padd and did some quick work. Then he took the controls of the vehicle, asking Malcolm for his address. Trip plugged it in, and they were off.</p><p>After some time, Malcolm felt the vehicle slow to a stop. Opening his eyes, he saw they were outside a medical clinic. “What are we stopping for?”</p><p>Trip turned to look at him from the front seat, his arm slung across the seatback. “The damn concussion.” He pointed a finger at Malcolm. “We’re not going anywhere until you get seen. Sorry.” He straightened, looking determined. “Actually, I’m not sorry. Figured if I asked you, you wouldn’t do it. And I’m not leaving you in your apartment like this.”</p><p>In the end, Malcolm ended up being grateful they’d stopped. The doctor had checked him over and gave himself something to reduce the nausea and pain, which also served to make him feel somewhat clearer. He’d been sent out with a prescription, a promise that he’d see his own doctor, and orders to rest. The script, he’d fill. The fact that he hadn’t a doctor here yet, he didn’t mention. As for resting? He’d consider it.</p><p>As Malcolm placed his bag on his mattress, Trip said, “We’re going to San Fran next, to see Jon. He’s arranged secure transport from here to there.” Malcolm turned to find Trip looking directly at him. “Want to come?”</p><p>Malcolm hesitated. He was sad that he and Trip were no longer, but they hadn’t been for years. He was glad that Trip was alive, and seemed relatively all right. He was also glad, in a way, that Trip and T’Pol might be… that something might develop there. But he didn’t say any of that. Instead he said, “I don’t know. I have some things I need to do here.” He smiled. “I was thinking I might finally be ready to buy some sheets.”</p><p>“And perhaps a new chair,” T’Pol added, completely deadpan. Trip and Malcolm exchanged surprised looks.</p><p>Trip pulled Malcolm aside. “You’re going to rest, right? Like the doc said. If we leave you here?”</p><p>Malcolm waited, staring at the other man, arms crossed.</p><p>“Promise me you’ll rest, and see a damn doctor.”</p><p>Malcolm waited, saying nothing. He knew how much that bothered Trip, and he didn’t want to make this too easy. He raised one brow.  </p><p>“Seriously, Malcolm,” Trip said, expression a mixture of frustration and amusement.</p><p>At that, Malcolm rolled his eyes, but he did nod. “All right.”</p><p>“And I know you don’t want to talk about getting back into treatment –“</p><p>“I don’t,” Malcolm interrupted.</p><p>“But please, Malcolm,” Trip said, coming closer. He dropped his voice. “There’s nothing wrong with needing help.”</p><p>Malcolm found he couldn’t answer.</p><p>Trip sighed. “If you need anything,” he said, a hand on Malcolm’s arm.</p><p>Malcolm nodded, holding himself tightly, not trusting himself to speak.</p><p>“Great to see you, man,” Trip said, and he enveloped him in a massive hug. They broke apart, and Malcolm saw T’Pol – he could swear he caught a small smile before she turned away.</p><p>As he closed the door behind them, Malcolm saw the napkin flutter beside the bed, the one with the doctor’s contact information Claire had given to him on it. Trip had said there was nothing wrong with needing help. He walked to the bed, bent, and picked up the napkin. He crumpled it in his hand, then smoothed it out again, unsure of what he was doing, what he wanted to do.</p><p>Staring down at it, he thought about Trip and T’Pol. About what Trip had said. About what he should do. What he wanted to do.</p><p>Maybe this time would be different. Maybe he was ready.</p><p>He picked up the phone and called.</p><p>x-x</p><p>End</p><p>x-x</p>
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